


Nothing Left to the Imagination

by Catchclaw



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Tower, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Loki escapes from Odin's jail and decides to take his revenge on the Avengers--in the middle of a party, of course.





	Nothing Left to the Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate take on the Age of Ultron shindig. Inspired by [this](http://bisebchris-archive.tumblr.com/post/156223295578/space-labrador-and-golden-retriever-of-justice).

Consider this:

A super soldier and a god.

A super soldier and a god sitting side by side on a couch.

A super soldier and a god sitting side by side on a couch, both utterly and perfectly trashed.

It shouldn’t be possible for either of them to be driven so out of their minds by the contents of some little green bottles and yet here they are, touching each other, big hands over broad skin, eyes fluttering with surprise, both of them dumbstruck by how much they feel, by how good it is to give themselves over to it, that riptide of sensation.

Oh, the soldier thinks, his thoughts thick as thieves, how nice to feel mortal again.

The god, it seems, is incapable of coherence. He’s deliciously hard, the kind of arousal that precludes sensible decision-making, much less the decision to make any damn bit of sense.

They haven’t even kissed yet. Indeed, it’s never occurred to the god to desire the soldier before--not like this--but now, with the man in his lap, with his own nails catching the soldier’s back, the idea’s all the god’s addled senses can hold.

He can’t bring himself to lift his head from the back of Tony Stark’s couch and bring the soldier’s mouth, Steve’s, straight to his. His head’s too heavy; his whole body feels as if he’s made of stone, from his scalp to his toes to the tip of his cock. So he does the only thing he can fathom, the only thing he can think of to get what he needs. He says:

“Please.”

Imagine.

The soldier moans, a low, hot sound that pours through the god’s body, and the human’s hips hitch, the weight of his arousal shoved heavy sweet against the god’s own. Why the hell, Steve Rogers thinks, are they still wearing pants?

“Jesus, Thor,” he says aloud, the words syrup thick. “Whatever you want.”

Thor, a god dwelling willingly among men, he can only whine; can only lick his lips and stare at Steve’s and say again: “ _Please_.”

This time, the response is immediate, electric: the soldier surges up and catches the god’s hair, rough gossamer, in his fist and shoves their mouths together, presses their bare chests flush, and the way the god’s body bows as they kiss, seeking more, needing it—oh, that’s worth the price of admission alone.

It was in the beer, of course. Innocuous bottles of domestic smoked glass that it was easy to spirit open and replace with contents far more interesting than what passes on Midgard for mead. There are gorier means of revenge, of course, ones filled with blood and screams, and the night’s sabatuer, Thor’s brother Loki, would-be ruler of Earth, recent escapee from Asgard, understands better than most being that those means indeed have their place.

But if there is one thing that Loki has learned in his travails, his many shuffles across the mortals’ own coil, it’s that few of the pleasures of living hold on their shine, do not fade over time, so well as the bringing of the self-appointed high to a state that is very, very low. He’d had a great deal of time over the centuries to consider the question, to interrogate this particular problem, how to wring every drop from revenge, and he’d found that degradation, public humiliation, had an especial zing. And it was damned entertaining.

Ah, yes--the horned god is certain: this night will indeed be one to remember, one those assembled will never forget.

Take Stark, for instance, that loud peacock of a man who at present is on the floor, speared between Banner and someone called Colonel Rhodes, and although Loki has never met the man formally, he cannot help but admire the colonel’s preference for an enthusiastic fuck. He’d shut Stark up soon enough, once they’d started kissing, and now, with some notable help from Dr. Banner’s rather well-proportioned cock, Stark has no room to argue, no room to say a damned word. Stark’s already come on himself once with no help from his bedmates--a fact he looks rather pleased by--and even so early on in the festivities, Loki suspects that of all those in attendance, Stark is the least likely to feel humiliated when the sun rises or even particularly shamed.

Banner, on the other hand? A whole different matter. Loki smiles to himself. The color he’ll turn when the sun rises will be far brighter than green.

Across the room, the Widow is arched in an armchair, the head of the woman they call Hill buried between her legs. The Widow’s skirt is pushed high and her legs are bare, her blouse torn open by her own impatient hands, and Barton, that indiscriminate clod, is bend over her, paying obeisance to her breasts. Barton is hard again, the relief he found in the Widow’s cunt already fled, and there is little doubt as Natasha finds her peak with a shout that Barton will try to have her again--if and when he can break Hill’s fervent ardor.

And this, all of this is happening no more than ten feet from the god and the soldier but neither of them have even bothered to notice, so enthralled by each other are they.

That they would be drawn together itself is not a surprise. That they should find so much of interest in the other’s company, be such eager slaves to their desire--this, Loki had not anticipated. Not quite.

He’d waited until the paper doll people were gone—the hangers-on, the sycophants, the dull-as-dirt elders—before he’d nudged Stark’s attention to the unopened case behind the bar. Another nudge, a murmured suggestion, and all in the room had accepted a bottle, and another, or four, even those that never drank beer.

“Just one more,” Stark had said, his hands winking glass green. “A toast. A nightcap. A chance to keep the night going.”

Oh, how it is.

They’re far gone enough now, all of them, that Loki can step free from the shadows he’s worn all night like a cloak. Even in this, his half-visible guise, he’s a mystery, no more real to those in the room than anything beyond the span of their lovers’ hands. No one notices when he bends to pluck Stark’s phone from the floor. No one blinks when he starts snapping away.

Roving mouths. _Snap._

Messy kisses. _Click._  

A shot of spunk, a shout, a long, sugar-fine whine. _Record_.

On the settee nearest the windows, though, the two great blond fools keep kissing. They can’t stop, can’t fathom a pause even when the soldier plunges a hand between them and tears open Thor’s trousers, gets a hand on the god’s gorgeous dick and the noise Thor makes would shatter planets, Loki suspects, would upend galaxies were the soldier not there to swallow it.  

“I want to suck you,” Rogers says, each syllable a slurred thunderbolt. “I want to suck your cock until you can’t stand it and lose it all over my face. I want you to see how good I make you feel, how hard I can make you come.”

Thor says nothing, cannot; he simply erupts, a white Vesuvius that singes the soldier’s fist and fills the air with the smell of his come, rough and earthy and everywhere, everywhere.

“No,” Thor says, little more than a whisper. “No.”

Steve kisses his cheek. “No?”

“No.” Thor draws up a pleased, ragged breath, lets it out. “For I will get on my knees here, Captain, beside this couch and you will fuck me. Until I feel your seed spread inside me.”

The look on Steve’s face is nothing more than pure delight. “Is that so?” 

The god stretches, the weight gone from his body, leaving only the want. “Yes. And then you will lick me clean and have me all over again.”

“Oh,” the soldier says, reaching for his belt, that pretty mouth lifting into a smile that Loki finds he must capture, “you’re goddamn right I will.”

_click. click. snap. click._

*****

  
When they can see again, those two, when there is sense, the room is a wreck. There are tables upended, bottles broken. Someone’s handprints are visible on the long wall of windows. The Colonel is asleep on top of the bar. Stark has hickeys that look almost like bites. The Widow cannot stop smiling. Neither can Hill. 

Behind the couch, on a nest of torn clothes and chair cushions, Steve Rogers wakes up in a god’s arms, cradled, Thor’s mouth warm and wet against the back of his neck. Thor is snoring. This startles the soldier: who knew that gods could snore?

But then, who knew that gods could get drunk?

It takes Steve time to open his eyes, still more to realize what is taped to his wrist: Stark’s phone, slim and gold, tucked with care against the plain of Rogers’ chest.

He lifts the phone to his face and nudges it awake and what he sees on the screen is an image. An image of he and Thor. An image of he and Thor curled up together, naked, their fingers twined in a sticky heap over Steve's spent cock. It’s not subtle.

There are a hundred more, as Rogers discovers: a vast and virtual gallery of the evening’s enthusiastic events. In these photos, the Avengers are laid utterly bare; nothing--not an inch of skin or turn of lips, not an expression of pleasure or one of exquisite pain--is left to the imagination.

And these images do not live on Stark’s phone alone; oh no. They are everywhere, ubiquitous, swarming each and every social media channel that will host them, the best bits tastefully blurred or no. 20 million views already, and counting.

All are online, that is, except for the last: a wide view of Loki perched amongst the sexed-out horde as they slept, his hand raise in a rude human salute, his grin a very mile wide, a message that could not be clearer:

_Fuck you, Avengers. Fuck. You._

The soldier’s stomach sinks like a stone. _Shit_ , he thinks. _Hell and good fucking goddamn_.

The horned god draws the dawn shadows around him and smiles, a small, pointed grin. How glad he is that he decided to linger; all the best to see you grapple with your embarrassment, my dear.

“So,” Barton says from under the coffee table. “Everybody ok?”

“Ok?” Stark barks. “Ok? Hell no. I’m fucking awesome. I’m gonna be wearing these bruises for _days_.”

Beside him, Banner shrinks into a naked, shamed heap and buries his face in his hands. “God, Tony, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Tony pulls his head from Rhodes’s chest and kisses Banner’s wrists, his forehead, his ear. “That was goddamn amazing. That was prom-level sex. That was senior prom sex. That was senior prom in the back of somebody’s SUV and you’ve never had a hand on your dick before sex.”

“Stop it,” Rhodes says, but he’s smiling. “Jesus, nobody wants to hear your sad sex stories right now.”

“They’re not sad,” Stark says. “They are A+ fantastic and your jealousy is not real attractive, Rhodey. Not fucking at all.”

“And Bruce? Hey, hey, Bruce?” The Colonel’s pitched up, shoving Stark with him, and now he leans across Stark’s shoulder, brushes his fingers down the slope of Banner’s red face. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, man. Don’t worry. Tony wouldn’t have let you hurt him. And neither would I.”

Rhodes kisses Banner then, a long, soothing stroke, and between them, Tony practically coos.

Loki stares. This is not what’s meant to be happening. The spell’s well burnt out by now. The enchantment has faded, its potency a guarantee of a short life. Where, then, is the screaming? Where is the shame? The outbursts of outraged humiliation? Why are these men so fucking calm?

But the women (and the Barton) are no better. They’re a tableau of contentment.

Hill and the Widow are still wrapped around each other in the armchair, Barton now settled sloe-eyed at their feet. Their legs are draped over his shoulder, his palms curved over their calves. Hill’s head is thrown back, her eyes closed, as the Widow’s head rests on her breasts.

“I need to patent your mouth,” the Widow purrs, her fingers stroking Hill’s ribs, the rest toying with Barton’s hair. “I could make a fucking fortune from that tongue. Screw guns, honey; your best weapon’s right there between your teeth.”

“What about me?” Barton says, sleepy and smug. “Seemed like I did alright by you.”

Hill stirs, says: “Stick to the bow and arrow, Clint. Your aim’s not as good with your dick.”

The Widow laughs and Barton does and Hill’s mouth stretches into a smile and Loki cannot understand for the life of him understand why in the seven hels these people are _happy_. Why is no one utterly crushed by this turn of events? Being tricked into fucking one’s friends, one’s fellow scolds, must have at the very least shaken someone’s faith in the ways of the universe, shouldn't it?

Ah, the god thinks with a start. Ah! It’s because they don’t know, surely. They don’t know that everyone does. Because Steve, their good and faithful captain, hasn’t brought himself to speak the truth, to say _the whole world knows what we did to each other last night when a god drove us out of our minds_.  _And there are gifs_.

“Well,” the soldier says, starting to sit up-- _at last!_ Loki thinks. _All-Fathers be praised_ \--“folks, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like--”

But then Thor stops him--Thor!--his arms becoming unyielding trees around Steve’s body.. “Five more minutes,” the god murmurs. “Hmmm? Five more minutes until we talk about anything, all right?”

Steve looks down at him and feels one last flutter of inebriation, a quiet echo of the night before: the god’s back shaking beneath him, of the weak, hungry sounds he made as Steve licked him clean, the way he’d kissed himself from Steve’s mouth and spread his legs again, begged softly, almost sweetly for more.

“All right,” Rogers says, settling back against the god’s body. He lets the phone slide from his hand and turns his head to find Thor’s mouth waiting for his, open and smiling. “Five more minutes.”

Consider this:

A god disappointed, a god overwhelmed. A god so intent on revenge that he failed to consider if he’d read this humans (and his blockhead of a brother) correctly. Delayed gratification, that’s the best he could hope for; perhaps seeing those images played on a loop around the world and back again would give some of them pause, after a time. And yet even that seems uncertain. But for now, what Loki had done was antithetical to his every intention: he had accidentally made each and every one of his worst enemies happy and that, dear reader, that confounded him far more than any prison cell ever had.

“I think,” Loki says to no one in particular, “I need a drink.”

**Author's Note:**

> Put a different version of this up and took it straight down back in April because I didn't like the ending. Think I'm ok with it now.


End file.
